


Bloody Lucky

by colonel_bastard



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Boners, Gore, M/M, Sadism, Sloppy Makeouts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 21:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12308139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: After a lifetime of lousy goddamn luck, Stan’s finally struck gold, and like most lottery winners he’s let it go completely to his head.  He just couldn’t resist the perfect storm of opportunity: a mile-long list of unfinished business and a two hundred year-old vampire with nothing better to do.OR: the one where Rick is a vampire and Stan is more than okay with it.





	Bloody Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> it's october and i wanted to write something spooky. 
> 
> mood music: [the horror of our love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9kQ-0bBkMIY) by ludo

-

-

-

The shotgun blast nails Rick in the chest at point blank range. It hits him with enough force to rip him off his feet, his body thrown backwards like a crumpled piece of paper in the path of a leaf blower, airborne for only a split-second before he smashes into the alley wall and drops to the pavement in a lifeless heap. When Stan hears the awful crunch of impact, he can’t stop himself from crying out.

“ _Rick!_ ”

It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t help it. He lurches forward, every instinct telling him to get to Rick’s side. Then Marco swings the shotgun back around and levels the mouth of it right at the center of Stan’s sternum. Stan freezes in place, hands up, breath held. 

“I warned you, Pines,” Marco growls. “If you ever showed your face in this town again, you’d have to pay the fucking piper.” 

He’s just got the one goon with him, Tony, standing at Marco’s shoulder and holding his signature switchblade at the ready. Neither of them is paying any attention to the remains of the stranger that Stan brought along on this suicide mission. They’re so certain he’s been dealt with that they don’t notice when Rick’s corpse begins to stir. Stan swallows hard and says nothing. 

“What’s a’matter?” Marco sneers, savoring his victory. “You got nothing to say to me? You ain’t even gonna try to beg?”

“I didn’t come here to beg, Marco,” Stan interjects. “I came to settle the score.” 

“Oh yeah?” Marco scoffs. “And how’s that? Were you just gonna show up here alone and unarmed and hope for the best?”

Stan’s trying not to give the game away by staring, but goddamn if this isn’t a beautiful thing to see. There’s Rick, unfolding from the ground in almost slow-motion, rising like a column of black, malevolent smoke. The front of his shirt is blown open— along with the entire front of his torso, one massive crater surrounded by a constellation of pellet holes, all shredded and raw and bleeding. There are flashes of bright white bone visible among the ragged red gore. It’s incredible. As much as Stan will never get used to seeing Rick take a hit like that, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing him get back up again. 

“What?” Marco asks, his tone uneasy. “What are you smiling for?”

“Nothing,” Stan smirks. “It’s just I already told you I brought backup.” 

Tony gives one of those dumb hyena laughs that make him such an excellent goon. “Yeah, you sure did.” 

“And how’d that work out for you, Stanny boy?” Marco jeers. “Better yet, how’d that work out for him?” 

“I dunno,” Rick says. “I feel pretty fuckin’ great.” 

It’s almost like a choreographed dance, the way Marco and Tony both whip their heads around in perfect goggle-eyed tandem, their mouths gaping wide in astonishment. Rick takes his eyes off his prey just long enough to lock gazes with Stan and deliver a conspiratorial wink. Then, as Marco scrambles to bring the shotgun to bear, Rick lunges right for his throat.

“Holy shit!” Tony screams.

He stands there dumbstruck as his boss gets dragged down to the ground in a howling, kicking frenzy. Then the shotgun goes off sideways, blasting a crater-pocked lunar landscape into the rough brick wall. The sound of it seems to remind Tony that he’s also holding a weapon, and he snaps out of his stunned paralysis and into motion, aiming his switchblade for the point in Rick’s upper back that will puncture his lung. Not that it will do him much good— but he never even gets the chance to connect, interrupted mid-swing by Stan’s shoulder plowing into the base of his spine. 

Stan put all of his weight into the charge and he drops that motherfucker like a running back on the five-yard line. The pavement crashes into Tony with all the fury of a speeding car, knocking the knife from his hand and the breath from his lungs. He makes one dazed effort to get up, but Stan’s already all over him, hauling him into a headlock and locking legs around his waist, pinning him down. Making him watch. 

Marco is putting up a hell of a fight. He’s thrashing and kicking on his back, dying cockroach style, while Rick straddles his hips and covers him with his body, chest to shotgun-shredded chest. He’s got his teeth buried in the side of Marco’s neck and both fists clenched in Marco’s hair. Stan can hear his wet, greedy snarls, the sound bubbling up through the blood as Rick gnaws and sucks at the spouting carotid. _Like sucking marrow from a bone,_ Stan thinks, marveling at the visible power in Rick’s neck and shoulders as he bites and bites and bites.

“Fuck!” Marco wails. “Motherfucker— agh— _God_ —”

“Marco!” Tony thrashes uselessly in Stan’s iron grip, his pinioned arms flapping like penguin wings. “Fight him, Marco! Hit him! Hit him!”

But of course Marco’s already tried that, has _been_ trying it, hammering his ever-weakening fists against Rick’s ribcage to no avail. He pulls, he claws, he tears at Rick’s face and hair, but at this point it’s pretty much a seal versus a great white shark. Unlike a seal, however, Marco possesses the intelligence to recognize his impending death at the hands of a superior predator. Stan sees it pass over his face, all of that macho bullshit bravado finally dissolving into naked, anguished terror. Marco’s eyes roll around in desperation, his hands no longer fighting but reaching blindly for something, anything that might help him. 

“Shit, Marco! Marco!” Tony tries to reach for him, then gags when Stan squeezes the chokehold. “Shit!”

There’s only a few seconds of fight left. Marco’s gone pale, then grey, his limbs jerking in strange spasms. It’s now or never.

“Hey!” Stan barks. “Over here!”

Gurgle. Marco’s glazed eyes roll towards Stan.

“Yeah,” Stan pants, exultant. “That’s right, asshole. Who’s paying the fucking piper now?”

Marco squints in the confusion of his death throes, but then, at the very last second, his eyes go wide with understanding. And then those eyes turn slowly dim, until the light behind them blinks out, once and for all. 

With a guttural groan of satisfaction, Rick lurches upright and throws back his head, turning his blood-drenched face to the sky. In the moonlight his mask of gore looks like slippery black oil, while his striking silver hair, cropped short underneath but growing wild on top, looks like some strange, smoky crown. Sometimes Stan forgets that Rick isn’t actually human. This is not one of those times. 

“Uuuuuugh,” Rick hisses through his teeth. “Shit.” 

Then he pitches sideways off of Marco’s corpse and sprawls onto his back on the pavement, his hands hovering protectively over his ruined chest. After that fresh influx of nourishment, his healing factor is kicking into overdrive, the smaller wounds already visibly shrinking, the center cavity trembling at the edges as the flesh regenerates. No pellets; he must have already pushed them out while he was feeding. Stan verifies the security of his chokehold, then calls out to him. 

“You okay, babe?”

“Do I fucking look okay?” Rick grumbles, his fingertips probing gingerly at the mess. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Tony’s voice is weak with fear. “Jesus Christ.” 

Stan tightens his grip. “Hey, Rick.” 

No answer. Rick can’t really see the wound so he keeps touching it, obsessive, grimacing at the slow speed of the process. Stan tries again. 

“Hey, dipshit.”

Irritated, Rick drags himself up onto one elbow for a proper glare. “What, assface?”

Stan nods his head towards his captive. “You want some more?”

He already knows the answer, of course. Rick always wants more. 

“Fuck!” Tony yelps, his limbs resuming their useless flailing, like a fish caught on a trotline. “Oh, Jesus, fuck!” 

Rick takes his sweet time, rolling from his back and over onto his hands and knees, crawling across the short distance between them with slow, predatory intent. He knows that Stan is more than capable of restraining his prey, his powerful arms and legs binding Tony’s struggling body with all the lethal effectiveness of a spider’s web. In fact Tony is such an insect in Rick’s mind that he doesn’t even bother to look at him as he approaches. He keeps his eyes on Stan. 

“So?” he purrs. “Was it everything you hoped for?” 

Stan thinks of Marco’s wide, staring eyes. He grins. “Even better.” 

“Pines!” Tony is sobbing in panic. “Pines! _Stan, please!_ ”

But Stan doesn’t hear him anymore. He’s done listening to assholes like this. He’s done running away with his tail tucked between his legs. After a lifetime of lousy goddamn luck, he’s finally struck gold, and like most lottery winners he’s let it go completely to his head. He just couldn’t resist the perfect storm of opportunity: a mile-long list of unfinished business and a two hundred year-old vampire with nothing better to do. Rick was bored when Stan met him. He’s not bored anymore. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Stan says, as Rick crawls up the length of Tony’s writhing body. 

Rick snorts as they come face to face over Tony’s shoulder. “Y-you fucking cornball.” 

“ _Stan!_ ” Tony shrieks. “ _Stan, please!_ ”

Stan never takes his eyes off Rick. “You ready?”

Rick licks his lips. “I’m always ready.” 

They’ve got it down to a science now, though it’s taken a bit of trial and error. In order for Rick to deliver the bite, Stan has to release the chokehold. By this point in the struggle their victim is completely saturated with adrenaline, so it’s been a crapshoot keeping them down, some going harder than others. After one too many sloppy kills, they devised a trick that hasn’t failed them yet. Stan calls it The Group Hug of Death. Rick calls it I’m Not Calling It That. 

At first they needed a verbal cue. Not anymore. They know each other too well by now. By unspoken agreement, Stan opens the chokehold for one split-second, just long enough for Rick to dive in and bite down. And before Tony can even process what’s happening, Stan closes the chokehold again— only this time it’s around the back of Rick’s neck, locking him onto Tony’s throat as Tony’s pleading splinters into agonized squeals. 

After that there’s nothing left to do but ride Tony together like they’re holding a bucking bronco between them, all two hundred-plus pounds of goon muscle fighting with everything it’s got to stay alive. Stan has his legs wrapped around Tony’s so Rick wraps his legs around Stan’s, threading his arms into the space between Stan’s front and Tony’s back so he can plaster himself to Tony’s chest. Tony is howling words again but he might as well be speaking in tongues because Stan doesn’t understand a single goddamn thing he’s saying. He’s too distracted by the sounds Rick is making, rough and feral, his head snapping from side to side like a terrier trying to break a rat’s neck. Tony is already turning sluggish, heavy in Stan’s arms. Rick is really going to town on him. What a perfect little monster. _My little monster._

And really, the best part of all this is the fact that the last thing Tony experiences in this life will be the sensation of Stan Pines’ hard-on digging into his ass. 

By the time Tony is dead, Rick’s shotgun wound has healed completely, so that when he rears back from the kill Stan sees an intact chest framed by the bloody, tattered remains of his shirt. Rick gazes down at him, mouth hanging open in a jagged grin, all pumped full of blood and victory. Stan takes a moment to admire the view. Then, grunting with effort, he wrestles to get the corpse out from between them while Rick sits back and laughs. Tony ends up draped over Marco while Rick ends up draped over Stan, sitting astride his hips and pinning his willing body to the ground. 

Stan used to hate the taste of blood. Now it drives him wild. 

They kiss all teeth and tongues, Rick’s hands in Stan’s hair and Stan’s hands on Rick’s ass, grinding their hard-ons together through their jeans. Stan didn’t know Rick was a vampire before he fucked him the first time. He just wanted to fuck him. The vampire thing came later, which was really just… the best possible bonus. 

And then Rick was bored. 

And then Stan had an idea. 

_”Okay, okay, l-lemme just make sure we’re both on the same page here.” Rick raises up his empty hands like he’s holding an invisible watermelon. “We’re talking… full-tilt… bloodbath… revenge murder spree.”_

_“Sure,” Stan shrugs, drunk for three days and nowhere close to slowing down. “Why not, right? I mean, if nothing really matters, why the fuck not?”_

_And Rick gives him that look, that where-have-you-been-all-my-immortal-life look._

_“Y’know,” he says. “I’ve, uh, I’ve been on a lo-o-ot of murder sprees. Like… a significant amount. And I’ve never met a human who could keep up.”_

_Stan reaches over to pull him close. “Try me.”_

_And as their lips meet, Stan thinks, yeah, I might be in love with a vampire._

“Fuck—” Rick pants against his mouth. “Fuck, I can hear you— _ungh_ —”

His right hand is glued to the space over Stan’s heart, his fingernails digging into the skin like claws. Stan knows he’s listening to the pounding of the muscle within, the rushing of the blood, the sheer, staggering tempo of it all. Rick tries to resist it until he just can’t take anymore. Then, like a dog being yanked by an inexorable leash, he jerks forward and shoves his face against the side of Stan’s neck, his mouth pressed over the beating line of the carotid artery. 

Instantly Stan’s hands jump from grabbing Rick’s ass to grabbing twin fistfuls of his hair. Once he’s got a hold of him, however, he doesn’t know whether he wants to throw Rick off or hold him down. His whole body has gone electric, his skin vibrating, his dick as hard as it’s ever been as Rick nuzzles his throat with blood-stained lips. 

“Je-e-esus,” Rick exhales, and Stan’s forearms break out in goosebumps. “Your fuckin’ heart, Stan. Like a goddamn Cadillac V8.”

There’s a cool, wet touch on his skin and Stan realizes that Rick is laving him with his tongue, his efforts concentrated over the carotid like a cat batting its paws against the glass that separates it from the birds outside. God, he’s fucking insatiable and Stan wouldn’t have him any other way. He twines his fingers in Rick’s hair and twists until Rick hisses with pleasure, his hips twitching in shallow, needy thrusts against Stan’s belly. When Stan twists again he feels Rick’s mouth yawn open in answer, and then all at once there’s a whisper-soft brush of teeth against the side of his neck. 

Stan sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. He used to be terrified by the possibility that Rick might bite him. These days he’s starting to be equally terrified by the possibility that he never will. He hopes, in that moment, for some kind of clarity— but his brain is a boiling mess of contradictory instincts, _fight_ and _flee_ and _fuck_ all smashing into each other and making his body jerk and shudder beyond his control. All he can do is hold on and try not to moan too loud as Rick starts to drag his teeth back and forth, skimming like fingertips over the surface of a swimming pool, an experimental gesture while he contemplates diving in. 

“ _Fuck_ —” Stan gasps, teetering right at the edge of freaking out. “Hah— _Rick_ —”

For one harrowing instant the pressure increases, Rick’s jaw pulled as taut as a hair trigger, his back arching up like a piston ready to plunge. _Ready or not, here it comes._ Stan squeezes his eyes shut so tight he’s seeing stars, holding his breath and bracing for the pain.

But that’s where the wave breaks. 

In the next instant Rick uncoils, the brutal curve of his spine softening into a lazy slope, his teeth sheathed behind an abrupt, affectionate nuzzle. All of the air rushes out of Stan’s lungs and the tension out of his body, his eyes fluttering open with the dazed confusion of someone waking up from an unexpected nap. He can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed. He doesn’t resist when Rick tugs his head out of his double-fisted grip, freeing himself to scoot backwards along the length of Stan’s body, receding from him like the tide. He stops when his head reaches Stan’s chest. Then he presses his ear to the space over Stan’s beating heart. 

“Mmmmm,” he hums with contentment. “Just listen to that baby purr.”

Now that the looming specter of panic has cleared from his senses, Stan is once again acutely aware of his erection digging into his zipper. The pressure is made all the more unbearable by Rick’s weight on top of it, his wiry body squirming with all that ravenous, restless energy that comes with a fresh feeding. Teetering right at the edge of a different kind of freakout, Stan manages to tousle Rick’s hair to get his attention. When Rick twists his head to look up at him, his eyes flash like a cat’s when they catch the light. 

“Hey,” Stan says, hoarse with want. “C’mere.” 

He cups his big hands around the back of Rick’s skull, fully intending to draw him up into the kind of kiss that leaves bruises. For a moment Rick actually allows himself to be led— but then his smirk turns sly and he slips Stan’s grip like an unwanted collar, slithering even further backwards than before. Of course. Stan should know by now that anything remotely resembling a command will only elicit the immediate, opposite reaction. Not that he’s complaining, as he opens his legs to accommodate Rick in the space between them. Rick settles in with his forehead pressed against Stan’s belt buckle, mouthing at the front of his jeans with wicked, teasing intent. 

_What’s the definition of trust?_

_Getting a blowjob from a vampire._

Stan doesn’t give a rat’s ass that he’s on his back in an alley with two corpses nearby. As long as he has Rick, he doesn’t have to care about anything. He has absolutely no intention of stopping until he looks down at his hands tangled in Rick’s hair and happens to notice the time on his watch. 

“Shit.”

He sits up just as Rick finishes opening his belt buckle. Undeterred, Rick goes for the button and fly next, but Stan reaches down and grabs his wrists. 

“Babe,” he says. “It’s almost five.”

“So?” Rick huffs.

“So it’s June on the east coast,” Stan reminds him. “Sun comes up around 5:30.”

He always makes it a point to know, mostly because he knows Rick can’t be bothered. More than once Rick’s gotten carried away and been caught with his pants down, quite literally, in the unforgiving light of dawn. Even now he rolls his eyes at the warning, sticking out his tongue in annoyance.

“Yeah, yeah, duly noted,” he scoffs, then licks his lips. “Now can I— c-can I please get back to sucking your dick now?” 

Stan’s cock twitches like it’s nodding in agreement. Rick notices and smirks. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

He tries to lean in again, but this time Stan catches him by the chin, holding him at bay while Rick whines in frustration. 

“Oh, c’mon! Y-you’re not gonna last thirty minutes, Stan. You’re not gonna last _ten_.” 

Stan flushes red. “Maybe not.” He points an accusing finger. “But you sure as hell will.” 

Rick grins, shameless. “Damn right, baby. I’m gonna last all-l-l night.”

“I know,” Stan grins back. “Too bad you’ve only got half an hour.”

He knows it’s not enough. Rick always wants more, and if they start getting frisky now he’s going to keep going and going until the sun walks right up behind him and slaps him in the back of the head. And there it is, finally sinking in, Rick’s brow furrowing as his mouth sinks into a deeper and deeper frown. This terrible grimace would probably be more effective if he wasn’t still sprawled in Stan’s lap. Still holding Rick’s chin, Stan angles his face up towards him until they make eye contact. 

“You wanna know what I think?”

“I think this is _bullshit,_ ” Rick hisses, like the movement of the celestial bodies is somehow Stan’s fault. 

“Duly noted,” Stan says dryly. “Now do you wanna hear what I think or not?”

Rick sticks his tongue out, petulant, and for a second Stan can’t decide if he wants to kiss him or punch him in the face. He ends up grabbing Rick’s tongue between his thumb and forefinger, making Rick’s eyes go wide in surprise.

“I _think_ ,” Stan says. “We should get a bottle of whiskey... and a motel room.... with a heavy set of curtains.” He gives Rick’s tongue a squeeze. “And then we’ll have all the time in the world.” 

He doesn’t resist when Rick pulls his tongue back into his mouth. He just lets his fingers go along with it, his knuckles grazing fearlessly against those dreadful teeth before Rick fastens his lips and sucks hard. It’s almost enough to make Stan abandon all reason. Somehow he manages to retract his hand, and then the rest of him, scooting out from under Rick and climbing up to his feet. With a resigned sigh, Rick follows him up. Together they stand and survey the remains of the carnage that they wrought tonight. 

“Hey, Stan.”

“Yeah, Rick.” 

“You’re keeping up.” 

Stan looks over and sees Rick giving him that look, that where-have-you-been-all-my-immortal-life look. It fills him with a pride so fierce and overwhelming that his heart almost bursts. Never mind everyone who ever said he was useless or slow or a waste of space— he’s got a two hundred year-old vampire who thinks he’s pretty great, and that’s pretty fucking cool. 

“C’mon,” he says. “Whiskey first.”

“Whiskey first,” Rick agrees. 

“Oh, and, by the way,” Stan gestures at Rick’s face. “You, uh, you got a little schmutz there.” 

“Pfffft, excuse _me_ ,” Rick snorts. “You look in a mirror lately?”

“I dunno,” Stan smirks. “Have you?”

Rick barks with amusement and swings a punch at Stan’s arm. Through sheer dumb luck Stan manages to catch his wrist, and he ends up using Rick’s own momentum to pull him into a wet, sloppy kiss. 

_Yeah,_ he thinks, as Rick’s arms wind possessively around his neck, his mouth bitter with the taste of blood. _I’m definitely in love with a vampire._

 

 

_______end.


End file.
